


I Will Find a Way to You (If It Kills Me)

by notwithoutyou



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The First Avenger, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, No Sex, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, gotta love tfa stevebucky!!, stevebucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:44:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwithoutyou/pseuds/notwithoutyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Don't say stuff like that," Steve tells him. "Don't joke about that."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Oh, please, Steve. No use denying it." Bucky sighs and rests a hand at Steve's side. "Guys like me, we don't come back."</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>"What, you scared?" Steve teases thickly. It's easier than acknowledging the weight of the statement. Bucky's prepared himself to go out there and die, and Steve- Steve hasn't.</i></p><p> </p><p>(Bucky kisses Steve for a few years before Steve finally kisses back.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Find a Way to You (If It Kills Me)

1\. 1938

"You're so fucking stupid, Steve," Bucky's voice comes through like it's underwater.

Steve's head feels too thick to move, eyelids too heavy to open, and he gathers up enough strength to mumble, "You are." In his own ears, his voice is distant and rough. Steve's lungs protest at the effort, seizing up into coughs. They hurt like hell.

"Shh, c'mon, Rogers," Bucky whispers, a cool hand pressing against the shuddering cage of his chest: firm, steady. "Easy now."

By some miracle, the coughing subsides in just a few minutes. Steve is about to say, _I'm fine_ , but Bucky silences him.

"No more talking, okay?" Bucky says. Steve feels his hand soothing at his cheek and through his hair. He tries to open his eyes for the first time, an enormous feat. It takes a few moments before light breaks through, and another few to adjust to the dim glow of the lamp on the nightstand, make sense of the blurry features above him. Bucky doesn't say anything, but he presses two fingers into Steve's pulse and traces his thumb over the lines of Steve's throat. "It's okay. Just rest now."

Steve obeys, giving into the darkness around his vision. It feels like sinking. Bucky's hands don't leave him.

When he surfaces, it's in a syrupy daze of sunrise through the blinds. The weight on his chest has lessened enough for him to breathe. Steve becomes aware of a familiar body pressed up behind his, a strong arm thrown over him like it will keep him safe. Bucky's hand is circled around his wrist, thumb pressed into his pulse.

"Bucky," Steve tries to say. The word catches in his throat. He manages to raise his voice a little more, "Buck."

Bucky sits up in bed like a gunshot's gone off, like they're back in church and he's been caught snoring by Sister Agatha. Bucky was never one for the long, chanting hymns, the stuffy air, the stiff shirt collars.

"Steve?" Bucky whispers, leaning over and realizing Steve is awake. "Hey, hey, sorry I fell asleep. You look better." He sounds desperately hopeful, like he doesn't want to believe it just in case it isn't true. Bucky untangles himself from the thin blankets and gets the thermometer. "C'mon, open up."

Steve does what he says and takes the moment to examine Bucky's face. He's pale, and the dark circles under his eyes indicate that his time asleep was short. Steve wonders how long he stayed awake, watching him.

"99.8. Steve, you're only 99.8," Bucky says, shaking his head like he doesn't believe it. The break in his voice makes it clear that this time shook him up more than most. "Your fever's broken, you lucky punk. You're gonna be fine."

Steve mumbles, "'Course I am. I'm always fine."

Bucky lets out a laugh that sounds a little more like a sob, and before Steve knows what's happening Bucky's mouth is against his, cool against his fevered lips. It's nothing more than a hard press, a desperate taste of relief rather than an actual kiss.

"Just- don't push it, Rogers," Bucky tells him, voice rough, before he straightens up. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and turns away. "Fuck, I thought..." He never finishes, but Steve knows.

Before Steve can answer, before he can form any kind of reassurance or put together a "thank you," Bucky's gone. Steve can see the line of his shoulders silhouetted out on the fire escape, where he leans unsteadily against the balcony and drops his head into his hands. Steve presses his fingers to the place on his lips where he can still feel buzzing.

-

2\. 1944

It's late when Bucky stumbles in, all messy around the edges and smelling like whiskey. "Stevie," he whispers, crawling under Steve's blankets in all his clothes.

"Take off your shoes, Buck," Steve reminds him gently. It's his last night home, he deserves to be drunk. In the faint streetlight through the window, Bucky's lips are slick and red.

Bucky drops his shoes and jacket onto the floor and rolls right up against Steve, never one for personal boundaries, and even less so when intoxicated. "I'm goin' to war tomorrow," he says, as if Steve doesn't remember, as if the words haven't been beating themselves into his chest.

"I know ya are," Steve answers.

"You gonna miss me, Rogers?"

"Nah. Got the whole place to myself now, huh? I can bring back any girls I want, and not worry about hurting your feelings," Steve says. All the false bravado is so transparent that if Bucky were less than wasted, he'd probably punch Steve in the shoulder.

"Oh, absolutely," Bucky nods along, pressing a grin into Steve's shoulder. "When I get back you'll already have a nice dame, probably a kid too."

Steve snorts. "Maybe."

"I'm serious! And you could name him after me, of course," Bucky hums.

"Yeah, okay," Steve rolls his eyes.

"Give 'em something to remember me by, huh," Bucky says absentmindedly, like the words don't crash in heavy on Steve's chest, suffocating.

"Don't say stuff like that," Steve tells him. "Don't joke about that."

"Oh, please, Steve. No use denying it." Bucky sighs and rests a hand at Steve's side. "Guys like me, we don't come back."

"What, you scared?" Steve teases thickly. It's easier than acknowledging the weight of the statement. Bucky's prepared himself to go out there and die, and Steve- Steve hasn't.

"Not on your life, Rogers," Bucky jabs back. His voice is too loud for the settling night around them. He seems to hear it too, quieting down in more ways than just volume. His eyes lose a little bit of focus before he talks again. "Hey. For dog tags- they want us to put next of kin," Bucky starts, his chin bumping Steve's shoulder. "Can I put your name?"

"Sure, Buck," Steve answers, feeling like he can't breathe. "'Course you can. S'long as you don't give anyone reason to contact me."

Bucky laughs, quiet and a little sharp. "No promises, buddy." Then he leans right over and fits his mouth over Steve's, tasting like alcohol and something sweeter. It's messier than the one before, with Bucky's drunk hands tangling in Steve's hair for a few moments and his tongue licking into his mouth. As soon as it's started, it's over, and the absence of Bucky's lips immediately makes Steve ache inside. "'Sides, who knows? Maybe you'll join me." His laugh is too bitter for Steve to swallow.

Steve doesn't sleep that night, but he pretends to when Bucky climbs out of the bed early in the morning. Steve keeps his breathing even while Bucky's hand brushes over his chest, almost too gentle to bear. Bucky's never treated him like he was fragile. He knows how much Steve hates it. But this- this is different. Steve feels the press of Bucky's thumb right above his heart, and it feels like an odd reassurance, a silent promise. He's not sure who it's for. Bucky's hand leaves Steve cold when it's pulled away. There's a rustle of fabric and the sound of the door closing. Steve still doesn't open his eyes, not sure he's ready to find the spot in the early morning grey where Bucky stood, the crippling absence of blue eyes and broad shoulders.

-

3\. 1945

Bucky would never admit it, but Steve can see him fading fast. His steps are too sloppy, shoulders too sloping. God knows he's been through a hell Steve can't even begin to imagine. Steve calls for everyone to take a break. They've still got miles to go before reaching the base.

Bucky doesn't thank him, but Steve knows that the gesture doesn't go unnoticed when Bucky sags with relief against a tree, clenching his jaw in pain. They haven't spoken much since escaping, but Steve knows Bucky's hardly in any shape to be talking. He has felt Bucky's eyes on him the whole way, though. He wants to say, "Wanna take a photo, Barnes? It'll last longer," but for some reason the words stick in his throat. Things are different now, heavier than the easy air of Brooklyn and science conventions and bar fights. War is different. It's the first time Steve's felt it crash in on him like that. It takes a minute for him to remember how to breathe.

"We don't have to stop, y'know," Bucky says, voice rough. The lie is almost pathetic.

"We have wounded men," Steve gestures vaguely toward where a few guys are nursing sprained ankles or a stray bullet graze. None of them are half as pale as Bucky. It's clear that Bucky doesn't believe it, but he's hardly in any shape to fight Steve over this right now. He drops it, and Steve is relieved. "I'm gonna go get some water," Steve tells him. They were damn lucky to find HYDRA rations at the base.

Bucky nods. As soon as Steve turns around, he hears Bucky's ragged sigh and the sound of leaves crunching as he sits down. When Steve gets back, his water flask full, Bucky is somehow asleep, curled in on himself against the tree. It's heart wrenchingly endearing, and Steve finds himself blown away as he drinks in the sight of him shamelessly for the first time. He looks tiny, and it could just be that Steve's bigger now, but it feels like Zola's labs took a couple inches off Bucky. His face is dirty, but Steve can still find the familiar signs of _his_ Bucky: the scar on his cheekbone from when he took on a whole neighborhood gang in Steve's defense, the line in between his eyebrows from worrying too much, the cleft in his chin. Steve's always known that Bucky was something else, something rare, something to keep safe. Somehow, looking at him now, Steve is crushed with regret. Bucky was always the one protecting him, and now... Now.

Steve shrugs off his jacket and lays it over Bucky. It's strange how little the cold bothers him now, when it used to reach his lungs and fill his chest. Night is falling, the shadow of dusk sweeping over them, filling in the hollows in Bucky's face. He wasn't this skinny even when they skipped meals to pay the rent. Steve reaches out and circles his fingers around Bucky's wrist, fascinated with how much bigger his own hands are. He presses his thumb into Bucky's pulse and holds on for a few moments. He's alive. He's alive.

Morning comes too soon for Steve's liking, although it's not like he slept. He told the men to set up camp and get some shut eye, but it wasn't so easy to do so when Bucky was breathing right beside him for the first time in months.

"Buck," Steve whispers, terribly reluctant to wake him but knowing if they don't leave soon, they'll have to march with the sun in their faces. "Bucky." He shakes Bucky's shoulder gently and Bucky wakes up swinging, fists aimless and clumsy. "It's me, settle down. Buck, it's me."

Bucky's eyes focus in on him and he takes in a deep breath. "Steve."

"Mornin'." In the grey light of dawn, Steve watches Bucky's eyes travel down to his shoulders and chest and waist and legs. Steve felt him looking when they were walking, but he thinks this might be the first time Bucky's sane enough to piece it together.

"The hell're you wearing, Rogers?" Bucky brushes his fingers over the white felt star sewn into the fabric.

"What, you jealous? I could get one made for you too," Steve says. Bucky's faint smile is a hundred pounds lifted off Steve's shoulders.

It's a shock when Bucky pulls him down to kiss him, and Steve goes easily. Bucky's lips are chapped and press into him insistently, like he's trying to force something into Steve. _He's alive._

Bucky pulls away and Steve falls back, sitting on his heels and trying to find his balance. He looks around instinctively, but most of the camp is just starting to wake up, too busy with their own things to notice two Brooklyn boys half-hidden in shadows.

"We have to go," Steve says, numb.

-

4\. 1945

"Steve, holy _fuck,_ just- c'mon, Steve, don't-"

Steve tries to speak, but when he inhales there's a burst of pain in his side. He reaches down and finds Bucky's hands already there, slippery with what he realizes is blood.

"We gotta get the bullet out," Gabe says.

"Can't we leave it in until we get back to camp?" Bucky's voice is frantic and rough.

"Not where it is. It'll just keep tearing through his organs if we try to move him. Super Soldier or not, that'll kill him."

" _Fuck,_ " Bucky hisses. "Fuck, okay, Steve, you're gonna be fine, just- just stay with me, okay?" His face comes into focus and a hand, stained red, presses into the pulse in his neck. "Look at me. You can't make any noise. We're too far behind enemy lines, okay? You gotta be quiet."

Steve manages a shuddering gasp and a nod. He knows one bullet can't take him out, not since the serum, but _God_ does it hurt.

"Morita," Gabe calls. "You have your kit?"

"I have better tools at camp, but these'll have to do," Morita answers.

"Stevie," Bucky says, voice ragged. Steve wants to touch him, wants to tell him it's all fine. "Here, bite down on this. No noise, okay?" Bucky slips a strip of leather that Steve thinks is part of an old ammunition belt in between his teeth, and Steve obeys.

"Sorry, Captain. This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch," Morita warns him, before Steve feels the sharp metal dig into his skin. Bucky was right to silence him, because Steve doesn't remember anything hurting this bad, not even the serum. He holds down screams and bites down on the leather to stay quiet as Bucky strokes his hand through Steve's hair.

"Attaboy," Bucky murmurs. "C'mon, Stevie, almost done."

There's a moment of pain so intense that he nearly blacks out, and Bucky pulls his head into his lap, cradling him like he's still small enough to be held. His hands are anchors, at his forehead and his chest and his pulse point.

"Shh, I know. I know."

Steve remembers, with a sickening dread, that Bucky does know. That he's had metal parts cutting into him, and he didn't have anyone to hold him steady either, to brush the hair out of his face and whisper to him.

Morita finishes and Steve gasps out a ragged breath, letting the belt fall out of his mouth. Bucky's right there, his voice a tether, "See? Just fine."

"Sarge, we need to go patrol, make sure no one heard-"

"Go," Bucky confirms briskly. "I can patch him up. Thanks, Morita."

The second the footsteps fade away Bucky is letting out harsh breaths, falling across Steve like his bones have given out. "I thought you were dead," Bucky presses into his neck, "I thought you were- I thought..."

Steve finds the back of Bucky's neck with his hand and threads his fingers through the hair there. It's longer now than he'd kept it in Brooklyn, from months out on the eastern front without any haircuts. "Buck," he manages.

Bucky presses their foreheads together. "You fucking idiot." There's a moment of quiet before Bucky's lips find his. It tastes like salt, and it takes a few seconds for Steve to realize he was crying. Steve is about to hold onto him tighter when Bucky pulls away.

"I can't do this without you, y'know that?" Bucky says.

"Bucky," Steve whispers. Bucky shakes his head as if clearing his mind, and sits up to press strips of cloth over Steve's bullet wound. Steve reaches out and rests a hand at Bucky's cheek, and Bucky lets his eyes fall shut, like he needs this. All Steve wants is to give it to him.

-

5\. 1945

So they're best friends. They're best friends who kiss sometimes. There's nothing wrong with that, Steve repeats to himself to quell the sweeping nausea that overtakes him if he thinks about it too hard. Boys aren't supposed to love boys, but god _damn_ does Bucky look like heaven early in the morning, all soft edges and smudging shadows. The two of them took the last watch, four am to six, and the watery morning sunlight of Russian winter is pale across Bucky's face. They won't move out for another couple hours.

"You miss Brooklyn?" Bucky asks, and the tone of his voice is wistful enough that Steve knows it's one of those days. They don't talk much about home anymore, not like when they first started camping out as the Commandos and swapped stories with the others for hours around the fire. Now it's too hard to think about that life, that version of themselves. War changes everything, and all Steve's sure of now is that even if he doesn't have Brooklyn, he's got Bucky. But it's one of those days, when Bucky misses his parents and his sister and his city. The thing about not having any surviving relatives is that Steve doesn't have to miss anyone. Bucky's all he needs, and by some miracle that's what he's got.

"Some," Steve tells him. "Miss the food, for sure."

It's not like they could afford much better on their salaries, but sometimes the Chinese lady in the apartment below them would fry up real duck with sizzling fat and this plum sauce and she'd invite them down to eat and send them home with leftovers. She had children back in China, but for some reason they couldn't come with her here. Steve thinks they might have died, but he never asked. Either way, she cooked for four, and Steve and Bucky were a couple of the only non racists in the building.

"Miss Mrs. Huang's cooking," Bucky says, reading his mind.

"I miss my bed," Steve says, embarrassingly honest. It feels petty to say it out loud, especially when their living conditions are a hell of a lot better than the muddy trenches some men are fighting in, but he's never been anything but transparent around Bucky.

"You mean my bed?" Bucky teases. He's wrong, actually- Steve's bed was the one Bucky would climb into because Steve would sooner freeze to death than admit he was cold, and Bucky would drag over his own blankets and curl up around him when he heard Steve's teeth chattering- but the principle of it is the same.

"I mean any mattress," Steve nudges him.

Bucky lets out half a laugh. "Soon enough, pal. We're stopping in London in a couple days, yeah?"

"Yeah. Gotta put together some more plans with Phillips, and fill up on supplies," Steve answers.

Bucky nods thoughtfully. "And see Agent Carter?" His tone is mild enough, but Steve hears the deeper question.

"You know we're not..."

"Only 'cause you won't ask," Bucky says pointedly.

"There's good reason for that," Steve tells him, voice sharper than he meant it to be.

Bucky raises his eyebrows and leans back against the tree he's sat up in front of. His gun is across his lap, casual, like it belongs there.

Steve suddenly wants to throw up. "I don't- I'm not-"

"What, too scared, Rogers?" Bucky presses. It's too close, it's too close to Brooklyn them in the bars, it's too close for Steve to bear.

"Too in love with someone else," Steve snaps. Bucky shuts up at that, wide blue eyes locked on Steve's. "I can't do that to Peggy, you know I can't."

Bucky opens his mouth then stops short, like he's going to say something but thinks better of it.

Steve's too riled up now to sit still with Bucky right there looking like all he's ever wanted. He has a bitter taste in his mouth and a sinking dread in his stomach. Bucky's just- Bucky's it, for him. He stands up and storms off, ignoring Bucky's choked, "Steve."

The sound of blood rushing in his ears is enough to block out the rest, as Steve walks through the forest, as far away from Bucky as he can get. It's funny, because the only thing he's ever needed is to be closer. He thinks, , _why did he kiss me_ and _why did I let him,_ thinks, _we shouldn't, we shouldn't, we shouldn't._

Bucky's hand around his wrist, his breathless, "Steve, hold on," is enough to break him. Steve spins around and grabs Bucky at the sides of his head and kisses him hard, pressing into him like conviction alone will get them anywhere. Bucky lets out a surprised noise against Steve's lips and then relaxes as Steve pushes him back against the nearest tree, mouths moving together like something that shouldn't have ever been apart. It's the first time neither of them is delirious with fever or woozy with injuries or drunk; it's the first time Steve thinks, maybe, maybe they can have this.

"Steve," Bucky murmurs.

"I'm in love with you," Steve says fervently.

Bucky's eyes search across his face like he's waiting for the punch line.

"I'm in love with you," Steve repeats.

"Damn, Rogers," Bucky breaks into a smile. "Fucking took you long enough."

"Shut up," Steve laughs, resting his forehead against Bucky's. He tangles his hands in Bucky's hair and kisses him again. And again, because he can.

"Loved you since we were kids, y'know that?" Bucky huffs, his breath creating clouds in the air.

"Sorry I'm a little slow on the uptake," Steve says. His heart swells with the way Bucky looks at him.

"We have now, don't we?" Bucky grins. It feels like coming up for air. "Captain America," he shakes his head. His voice is sarcastic like it always is when he addresses Steve that way. "Sweet on _me._ Imagine that."

"Shut up, you jerk," Steve shoves his shoulder. Bucky's laugh is like coming home.

"When are we moving out? We gotta catch that train at just the right time, don't we," Bucky says.

Steve nods, thoughtful. "Yeah. I think Falsworth's put together all the supplies, so probably right after breakfast."

"Still can't believe this mission. Zip lining onto a train, damn," Bucky looks over at him skeptically.

"Like you're not dying to be my loyal sidekick," Steve jokes. They laugh at it because it couldn't be further from the truth. Somehow, the public put together an image of Captain America and his sidekick Bucky. They don't know that Steve's the one following Bucky, from Brooklyn to the eastern front to wherever else this war might take them. That he'd follow Bucky anywhere.

"In your dreams, Rogers," Bucky shoves at his chest, and Steve catches his hand and tugs him in to kiss him again. Now that he knows this is okay, it's hard to keep it down.

"Steve, _God,_ "Bucky says, a hand at the side of Steve's face. His voice is awed, reverent. Steve's knees nearly buckle. "You've got no idea what you do to me."

"I can't believe this took us so long," Steve sighs.

"Yeah, well," Bucky kisses him again, once, twice, "we've got time. You're not planning on getting yourself killed anytime soon, are ya?"

"Not a chance," Steve shakes his head. "You?"

Bucky snorts. "Maybe if you keep dragging me out on dumbass missions like these. I'm only human, Rogers."

Steve kisses him hard. It feels like he's proving a point. "Make it through this one, and then we get London. We get a bed."

"London," Bucky repeats, a promise.

It's the first one he ever breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! My tumblr is notwithoutyous if you wanna contact me, I'm always down to discuss Steve and Bucky's undying love.


End file.
